


Homecoming

by NightsMistress



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M, Post-Book, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5303261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightsMistress/pseuds/NightsMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight years on, Learned Lord Penric kin Jurald returns to kin Jurald's lands. It's not quite the homecoming he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NaomiK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaomiK/gifts).



> My thanks to my betas, egelantier and Brigdh, for making this what it was.

The rocky cradle of the Raven Range cupped the lands that kin Jurald counted as their own. The uplands where wild sheep roamed and were hunted for their wool and meat gave way to what only hillmen would consider valleys, the river snaking its way downstream to the sea far beyond what the eye could see. A cloak of grey mist settled low in the sky, shrouding the land and hiding it from view, resisting the efforts of the late-afternoon sun to burn it away.

It was an isolated place. There were no cities, no holy places, and while it was a pretty countryside, it was not one that invited much in the way of visitors. Those who travelled through it were headed to Martensbridge, perhaps, or headed from there to far Darthaca. It was a place for travelling through, from one point to another, not for staying. Those who lived there, of course, had a different view.

For Penric, it had been eight years since he had ridden away from these lands under Temple escort, demon sitting uncomfortably somewhere inside him and questions whirling within his head, and the view still hadn’t changed. He could see the lakes that fed the farms and towns, though he still thought that they did not resemble his eye colour at all. He could see the dip in the road near where he and Des had first met. With Des’ help, he could see right through the mist to the stark rocky boundary of the Raven Ridge. He couldn’t have seen the view like this eight years ago, but somehow being able to see more clearly made the view seem smaller.

The realisation surprised him; shouldn’t it have stayed the same? His memories suggested that the mountains were taller, the hills steeper, the valleys wider. There were still mountains and hills, valleys and rivers, but they were less rugged and majestic than he remembered. Even the taste of the air was subtly different. He had seen this view countless times on horseback, so what was different now?

Why didn’t it feel like he was coming home?

 _I don’t understand,_ he said. _Nothing could have changed, so why does it feel smaller?_

 _It’s you,_ Desdemona said. _You’ve come a long way from the pretty blue-eyed boy I chose._

 _I suppose that’s true,_ Pen agreed. _That boy couldn’t have imagined ever going to Rosehall, let alone further afield._

It was the ‘further afield’ that had brought him back to his family’s lands. Pen and Des had been sent by the Temple to investigate rumours from Darthaca about improper account keeping, and had had to leave rather quickly when the improper account keeping turned out to be a feint behind a very improper assassination attempt on the young divine who came to investigate. Pen had resolved the situation with only a _little_ burning of the keep, and it was suggested (unfairly, Pen thought) given his history of setting fire to noble architecture in response to assassination attempts that perhaps he should go somewhere quiet in the country to keep out of political trouble for the time being.

Martensbridge was where he had taken his vows, and so Martensbridge was where Pen’s Order sent him. From there, Pen had suggested to Tigney that he be permitted to visit family for a few days, which Tigney agreed to with almost alarming alacrity. Pen was not entirely sure that he was not meant to hear Tigney’s muttered comment that Pen was less likely to set his own family home ablaze.

Still, the journey home had been interesting. Pen had, in a fit of whimsy, followed the same route he had travelled with Gans and the armsmen attached to Learned Ruchia’s escort in reverse: starting with Martensbridge where his spiritual marriage with Des was sealed, and ending with where their courtship had begun. When he’d suggested it to Des, she’d seemed amused, but pleased.

 _What do you think is waiting for me at home?_ Pen asked. They were a few days out from Court Jurald, and he’d been entertaining thoughts of what he might find when he got there. He thought he was not likely to avoid familial scrutiny, as that was the assumed right of all relations to a youngest child. He thought that Greenwell wouldn’t have changed at all, as it hadn’t in the whole time he had been there in the past. He thought maybe some of the people he had known would have had children by now. He wondered how he would talk about his time away. It would be nice to go home and feel like he belonged, even if they did look at him as if they still changed his swaddling cloths.

Des was silent, but in the considered way that suggested it was a question to which she knew the answer but did not know how to say it.

 _Des?_ Pen said.

 _You’ll find out when you get there,_ Des said finally.

Pen’s mouth quirked. _You sound like my mother, he teased. She would say that whenever my sisters or I would ask what there was to do at a place we were going to._ In Pen’s experience, it meant that there was nothing, but that his mother hadn’t wanted to deal with the frustrated tempers of young children who were hot and overtired from travel.

 _Then perhaps you should learn from that lesson,_ Des said.

It was not a very helpful answer.

* * *

 

Forty or so miles out from Pen’s final destination, they stopped at the modest town he had visited on his way out from Greenwell Town with a house of the Daughter’s Order. He was shown in by a dedicate, who checked off the braid pinned to his shoulder, and taken to a room where he was offered hot water and food. There was no recognition on her face. Nor was there any fear. Sorcerers, as a rule, did not wear anything special to identify themselves. They blended in with the others of the Bastard’s order.

Pen took the dedicate’s pleasant, perfunctory service as it was intended: the hospitality of the Daughter. He could have gone down to the common area and shared a meal with the other travellers and pilgrims who found themselves here, but it seemed strange to do so. Here was where his and Des’ partnership began, and it seemed fitting that he repeat the exercise that had given rise to their true partnership.

The room was laid out much the same as the one he had used eight years ago, with, most importantly for tonight’s endeavour, the table with a mirror and stool. Once again, Pen sat down with his comb, undid his queue, and attacked the day’s snarls. This time, he untangled from his hair a length of silk, which he was told was the colour of the sky. Pen thought it was as much the colour of the sky as his eyes were the same colour as lakes: possible under some circumstances but for the most part terribly untrue. It was, however, a bright, clear light blue that made Des happy to see, so it made Pen happy to wear it.

The face reflected in the mirror was familiar, as the two of them looked out of his eyes together. He had grown into the bones of his face and his fair skin no longer made him look young, merely youthful. His nose was not bold, but assertive enough to balance out his long lashes and blue eyes. He was never going to be called _handsome_ , not in the way that he might have liked once when he had thought he belonged to the Son of Autumn. Striking he could aspire to, he thought.

 _Pretty,_ Des said firmly.

“I’d _rather_ striking,” Pen complained. “I’m too old for pretty.”

Des’s response was a cackle of laughter. “Barely twenty-seven and he calls himself old!”

It’d been a long time since Des had spoken with Pen’s voice. Perhaps she too thought that tonight should be done as it had been before.

He was dressed much as he had been when he left Court Jurald. Robes may have been more officious, and he did have those in his saddlebags, but he still felt more comfortable in border lord attire. The only difference was the braid of white, cream, and silver pinned securely to his shoulder. It still made him smile to see it, for all that he had worn it for a few years now. It marked him as a man vowed to another, a vow of the air and spirit.

It was, for all intents and purposes, his wedding ring to Des.

“You were right,” he said. “The colours of the Bastard _do_ suit me better.”

“Flattery,” Des breathed, “will get you everywhere.”

“It’s not flattery,” he said. “Flattery would be untrue.”

“When did you get such a clever tongue?”

“Exposure to you,” Pen said. He sighed then, the mood lost. “We have another forty miles to travel to Greenwell. I just hope the roads stay dry.” Might as well hope for the sun not to rise, he thought. Unfortunately, creating clear days did not fall into the Bastard’s realm and so Pen did not know any sorcery to bring it about. If anything, mud and muck would be more chaotic than good, dry roads. It was really best not to test his luck.

The bread was good; hot and crusty, and it sopped up the butter Pen smeared on it with ease. He bit into the bread roll and closed his eyes. The warm, comforting taste of hot bread filled their mouth, and Des sighed in pleasure. This was something they hadn’t done when they had travelled through here the last time, if only because Pen hadn’t thought to do it. Simple pleasures of the flesh were something that they could indulge regularly — and indeed, did — but the novelty never really wore off for Des.

It was a pity that Des didn’t consider ‘being rained on’ a pleasure of the flesh as well. _That_ , Pen had to himself.

“Do you think it will rain tomorrow?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Des said. “You’d know as well as I if it were.”

“In that case, bed,” Pen said decisively. If it did rain, it would be a long day. If it didn’t … it would still be a long day, just less muddy.

* * *

 

Greenwell Town had known the young Penric well, and Pen had thought to ride through when he had first set out. He had come to reconsider. Age had yet to lend padding to his rear, nor endear him to long-distance riding. He was light and lean enough that the horse he rode was not struggling under his weight on the prolonged road, but the horse was perhaps the only one not in discomfort.

He led his horse to the watering trough near the well that gave the town its name. It drank greedily, and Pen felt guilty at his plan to keep riding. It wasn’t the horse’s fault that Pen was saddlesore and wanted to nurse his bruises in a hot bath as quickly as possible. Well … it _was_ the horse’s fault, but only in the strictest of senses. Honesty compelled Pen to admit that he would be a better rider if he rode a horse more.

He found himself under the careful scrutiny of a little girl, maybe four or five years old, dark hair tightly wound into small wispy braids, and dressed sensibly in a homespun dress. He was amused to see that the dress was grass-stained at the hem, and that both of her knees were filthy.

He waved genially at her and nodded. She returned the wave seriously.

“That’s a horse,” she said, pointing with one chubby, grimy hand at Pen’s horse. The horse was indifferent to her regard, still greedily slurping water from the trough.

“That’s right,” Pen agreed. “He’s very thirsty because I rode him a long way.”

“I get thirsty too,” she said. “But I don’t drink from there.”

“That’s because there’s a well to drink from,” Pen said. “You wouldn’t want to drink with the horses.”

Judging from the expression on the little girl’s face, she very much would like to now that the idea was in her head. Pen mentally composed an apology to her parents and hoped that they did not know his mother well.

“Maeti!” called a woman behind him. Maeti looked up from her examination of the trough, and put her hands behind her back while she squirmed on the ball of one foot. “Don’t annoy the divine.”

He turned to look for the speaker. She and Maeti seemed to share a similar bone structure, so it was easy for Pen to guess their relationship. Mother and daughter, he supposed.

“Oh, she’s not annoying me,” Pen said earnestly. “She was very sweet.”

Maeti’s mother stared at him, mouth slightly ajar. “Learned — uh, Learned Lord Penric!” she managed, her eyes wide and startled in her pretty face. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She recognised him, that much was clear. He struggled to remember what she might have looked like eight years ago. He hadn’t had much to do with girls who weren’t his sisters, and he had little enough to do with them.

 _It’s your once-betrothed,_ Des said. _Don’t you remember?_

Pen didn’t and felt terrible for it.

“Nor I,” Pen said. Once, he had hoped she would call him ‘husband’. He had hoped that she would look at him with love, even if that didn’t happen at first. He had intended to do his best. Once.

It was surprising how painless the meeting was for Pen in that regard. It had been a long time since Preita had broken off their engagement, and Pen had become a different man on a different path. It was still an awkward meeting, primarily because Pen had completely forgotten what she looked like, but the pain of the broken betrothal was long eased. He smiled to indicate his general pleasure at seeing her, and also that he held no ill-feelings about her choice.

She didn’t return the smile. Instead she looked drawn and anxious, unravelling a loose thread on the sleeve of the brown wool shawl she was wearing, and her eyes darting toward her daughter.

“If Maeti starts drinking out of the water trough I am truly sorry,” Pen offered.

Preita managed a sickly smile at this. “Are you upset?”

Pen shook his head. The question didn’t make sense. Maeti was a little girl, and sometimes small children took strange ideas into their heads. “Why would I be upset?”

“Well,” Preita said. “Once, we were …” She trailed off, her mouth twisting in discomfort. She had started to pull another strand of wool from her shawl, teasing it out fretfully with her fingers.

“No!” Pen said, startled. “That was eight years ago. Why would I be upset?”

“Oh,” Preita said. “I see.” She looked taken aback, and a little hurt. Pen thought he might understand why. He hadn’t really been troubled with the decision for the last eight years, but it seemed that Preita had been. It must be difficult to learn that a burden she had been assuming for years was really unnecessary. It must be like a part of her now, he supposed, and that would be difficult and painful to give up.

 _Likely so,_ Des confirmed.

“It’s really all right,” Pen said. He wasn’t sure what he should say next. _I’m happier this way,_ probably would suggest that she would have made him unhappy, which wasn’t true. Pen thought he could have been perfectly happy, because he wouldn’t have known what it was like to be Des’ partner. _It was destined,_ he thought was not something one told your once-betrothed under any circumstances, as it would only be rude. _I don’t know anything about cheese,_ while accurate, was nonsensical.

“You made the right choice,” he settled on finally. “I think we both know that. After I met Des, it would never have worked out.”

“You _named_ your demon?”

“Well, yes,” Pen said. “She didn’t have a name before.”

Preita stared at him blankly. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“Besides, you have Maeti,” Pen said hurriedly. “Do I know your husband?”

It turned out he did not; Preita had married another cheesemaker and the two of them were slowly making a name for themselves for cheesemaking. Their daughter, who Pen learned was five, would be the heir to what counted as a vast cheese inheritance, or so he understood. Pen didn’t really understand the intricacies of cheesemaking, but that much he could grasp.

“I should probably get going,” Pen said. “I hope to be home this evening.” He didn’t offer to meet Preita again, and she didn’t ask. She merely took Maeti’s hand in hers and told her to wave goodbye to their Learned Lord Penric, off to see his mama and brother. Pen nodded solemnly as Maeti waved, and mounted his horse.

* * *

 

If Court Jurald had been far away from Greenwell, Pen might have stewed on the conversation he’d had with Preita. Fortunately, the gate to Court Jurald was not far, and Pen entertained fantasies of hot baths and clean clothes, and Des had entertained fantasies of those and finding an attractive young man in their bed that night as well. Pen didn’t like her chances of the latter, but didn’t think it would be kind to tell her so.

Their plans were stymied by the gate to Court Jurald remaining resolutely shut, and a guard wearing kin Jurald amor looking over the guard post above the gate with a suspicious and dubious expression. “Identify yourself!”

What? Of all the ways Pen had expected his homecoming to go, being challenged about his identity at the closed and barred gate of Court Jurald wasn’t one of them.

 _It has been several years since you left,_ Des observed. _Put the poor man out of his misery?_

 _Oh, very well,_ Pen agreed. _But it is terribly strange that he doesn’t recognise me._

“I am Learned Lord Penric kin Jurald,” Pen called back. “I’ve come to visit my family.”

The guard reared back as Pen spoke. “ _The_ Lord Penric?”

“Uh, yes?”

“The one who swallowed a demon and became a great and terrible sorcerer?”

“That’s not _entirely_ true,” Pen said. “I’m really only a very middling sorcerer.”

 _Only because we’re too sensible to let you do all the things you’d want to do with magic if you could,_ Desdemona said tartly. _Fire propelled flight,_ really _now._

_I really do think it would be possible, if there were a steady source of flame._

_A steady source of flame that’d burn you up._ Still, Des sounded amused at his flight of fancy. _It’s lucky we found you, otherwise you’d have set yourself alight years ago._

 _I am very lucky,_ Pen agreed.

There was a heavy thud inside the gated compound; the unbarring of the gate, Pen assumed. It had been a long time since he’d heard the particular sound of Court Jurald’s gate unbarring. He’d learned on his journeys abroad that each gate had a unique, sound when they were unbarred, despite the fact that they all used the same mechanism.

This one sounded wonderfully familiar, but not as loud as he remembered it being. It was a smaller, less full sound than Penric’s memories suggested.

The gate swung outwards. The guard inside, a rawboned chap about a handspan taller than Pen’s lanky height, looked sick with apprehension. Pen smiled at him, communicating his friendliness and inherent trustworthiness. It didn’t seem to help.

“Begging your pardon!” the guard said, coming to a painfully proper salute. “Please come through, and please find it in your heart to forgive ignorant men, Learned Lord Penric.”

It was a response that Pen was becoming accustomed to when people realised that the blue-eyed young man with the Bastard’s braids and a friendly smile was also a sorcerer with all that entailed. He’d never expected to get it at home though. Pen didn’t think he was a particularly fearsome person — if he had been, his childhood would have involved less forced dress up sessions with his older sisters — and his brother’s guard’s fear sat ill with him.

 _He is new,_ Des suggested, but it didn’t sound convincing.

“No harm done,” Pen said wearily. “It has been a long time since I was home.”

“Will you be seeing the Lord Jurald?”

“Yes, after a bath,” Pen said. He smiled wryly. “My brother would not appreciate me smelling of the road and horse.”

His joke, feeble as it was, fell flat.

“I’ll … go stable my horse,” Pen said, and rode in the gate. He hoped the stable was where he remembered it being. After that, a bath.

* * *

 

Pen was late for dinner. The bath had been more than welcome in releasing the knots in his travel-weary body, and he had lingered overly long. When he had lived here, dinner was at dusk, since everyone was up around dawn to start work. He didn’t think that had changed, and so when he went to the dining hall he hoped only to claim some leftovers from one of the servants.

Instead, he met his brother. It turned out he had just returned from the hills himself, and so a late dinner had been put on for him. The light from the torch cast Rolsch’s face in shadow, and did nothing to hide the new lines that marked his face.

“Pen,” Rolsch said and inclined his head in way of greeting. He waved at a chair and Pen sat down.

 _He’s tired,_ Pen thought. It was something he had some sympathy with.

Their father had left a millstone of debt hanging around his family’s neck, and the years since had done little to improve their fortunes. Pen’s betrothal had been intended to ease that weight for a time. Of course, that had been before Pen had found Des and upset everyone’s plans.

 _And I wouldn’t have had it any other way,_ he assured Des.

_I know. You would have been wasted anywhere else._

Pen had to admit that that was true. He enjoyed being the Temple’s youngest agent, and though he still stumbled into trouble more often than actively sought it out, he was becoming more adept at extracting them from those situations. Though sometimes, fire was the only way.

Maybe there was something to Tigney’s concerns.

“You’ve finished your training?” Rolsch asked.

“Oh, yes,” Pen said quickly, and hoped that Rolsch hadn’t been talking while he had been distracted. He touched the braid resting on his shoulder. “It was very interesting.”

“I do wish we could have sent to you to Freitten,” Rolsch went on. It didn’t seem like he had heard what Pen had said. “If we had, you wouldn’t have been chosen by the demon.”

Pen hadn’t known that his brother felt guilty about what had happened, especially given that Rolsch had explicitly shown him how infeasible his dreams had been. He said, with some surprise, “No, I would have, it just wouldn’t have been quite like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was intended,” Pen said. Honesty compelled him to add, “Or at least that was what the Saint of Idau said.”

 _You didn’t have to tell him that,_ Desdemona commented as his brother frowned. _He’ll wonder why you were talking to my Master’s saint and why you still have me._

 _I don’t think so,_ Pen replied. _I don’t think my brother would know who or what the Saint of Idau is. Matters of demons and sorcery aren’t really what my brother is interested in._

 _That was in the past, before his brother became a divine,_ Des pointed out. _He would have been minded to learn a great deal after you left for Rosehall._

“That’s comforting, to know that you have His positive regard,” Rosch said.

Pen still remembered the terrible intensity of the Bastard’s attention through the lens of the Saint of Idau. Comforting wasn’t the word he would have chosen.

 _Of course it’s not,_ Des said waspishly. _The only people who would think that are those who’ve never had it._ It was extremely unlikely that she would ever forget meeting her Master through his saint either. If the Bastard had taken Desdemona back, Pen would have survived whole in mind, if not in spirit. Des … he shuddered to think.

“I don’t think His help is the kind you want,” Pen said carefully.

“For all that He is the God of things out of season, you are sworn to him,” Rolsch replied. “I can’t see how it would make things _worse_.”

Pen could, but kept it to himself. He didn’t want to imagine what kinds of things the Bastard would steer them towards; the trouble that he and Des got themselves into was more than enough for him.

It was an interesting thing for Rolsch to say. Pen knew that the family finances weighed heavily on Rolsch’s mind, and had since he inherited kin Jurald’s books and learned the full extent of their father’s irresponsibility. After all, Pen’s engagement had been an attempt to trickle money back into their starved coffers, and that hadn’t turned out well. Breaking off the engagement — even if it was at Preita’s request — would have cost as well, and that was money that they could little afford. Pen had noticed that in addition to the furnishings looking the same as they had when he left, if more worn due to an additional eight years of use, some rooms weren’t cleaned at all.

He’d noticed his own room had been carpeted with a thick layer of dust, as if it had been sealed up after he had left and not reopened until he returned. Opening the door had disturbed the dust enough to choke him, much to Des’ amusement. Travelling with Des meant that he knew how to use sorcery to deal with infestations of lice and mites in the mattress, and the linens had been freshly changed by the time they had returned from the bath, but that had stayed with him. For all that kin Jurald were poor — and they were — the servants had always been proud of how clean they had kept Court Jurald.

However, now there was a new guard on the gate, one that was unfamiliar to Pen. The servants were new to Pen too. And now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen his sisters or their husbands anywhere. Court Jurald was not large enough for all of his sisters to hide away from him, if indeed they wanted to, and so the question was where were they now. The castle didn’t _seem_ battle-ready. In fact, it seemed worn down and threadbare. But Pen had been away for eight years. A great deal could have changed.

“Rolsch,” Pen said. “What happened since I was away?”

“Children,” Rolsch said.

Pen blinked. He hadn’t expected that. For one, he didn’t think he had seen any children around, though he appreciated that he had arrived in the late afternoon. Correspondence from his family had been infrequent, given how expensive it was to send letters and the distances involved, but he would have thought that someone would have told him if he had nieces and nephews.

He supposed that did explain why his sisters were no longer in the castle. Even Rolsch, as money-conscious as he was, would allow them to move away into their own small cottages if there were children.

“I’m an uncle?” he said blankly. “When did that happen?”

“It hasn’t yet,” Rolsch said. “But the Daughter has given us a great blessing.” He didn’t sound very pleased about it. Pen supposed he wouldn’t. They did have quite a few sisters, though Pen’s recollections of them were more of them treating him as a living doll than of mothers of their own children. He supposed, now that he thought about it, that if he was grown, then they would be more so. If anything they’d left it late.

“How many?”

“Three on the way,” Rolsch said. “I really don’t know how it happened.”

 _The usual way, I assume,_ Des said.

Pen choked.

Rolsch looked concerned.

Pen waved off his concern with his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Something caught in my throat.”

_He does know, doesn’t he? I remember you were confused about it._

_Des!_ Pen wailed. _I knew where babies come from!_

 _Ah, yes, but that was_ all _you knew,_ Des said.

Pen’s face was hot.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Rolsch asked carefully.

“Yes,” Pen said, his voice strangled. “It’s a very big something in my throat.”

“I see,” said Rolsch in the tones of someone who clearly did not, and was hoping for enlightenment.

“So,” Pen said brightly. “Nieces and nephews! That’ll be nice. I’ll have to remember to write to them when they’re older.”

 _You won’t see them?_ Des sounded disappointed. _That’s a shame._

 _I don’t think they’d want me to see them until they’re older_ , Pen said. It was something of a disappointment. In his limited experience, he was quite fond of babies in small doses. He wasn’t sure that he wanted any of his own — and supposed that it would be rather difficult for him to father any of late — but he quite enjoyed playing with babies. Still, he suspected that his sisters would prefer it if Uncle Pen, one of the Bastard’s sorcerers, remained a thing of family stories.

“They’d like that,” Rolsch said. Pen appreciated that he too didn’t suggest that Pen should see his nieces and nephews in person after they were born.

“Will you be staying long?” Rolsch asked.

“No,” Pen said. “I’ll be expected back at Martensbridge before too long.”

Any regret he might have felt about leaving after only a few days was eased by Rolsch’s expression of pure relief. His brother’s expression passed quickly, but Pen felt hurt by it nonetheless. It stung, despite his knowing that Count Jurald was no longer what he thought of as home. It was comforting and familiar, but _home_ was somewhere else.

 _I didn’t want to tell you,_ Des said. _In case it didn’t happen this way._

 _It’s fine,_ Pen said, and meant it. _We’ve grown too big to fit here anymore._

It was true. The Penric kin Jurald who had ridden away to Martensbridge had been barely more than a boy, with a boy’s wide-eyed idealism. Learned Lord Penric, while still idealistic, knew what he was capable of doing. Or, to be more precise, what _they_ were capable of doing. He was a divine, a Temple sorcerer, a man married to a demon, and none of those things belonged here in Count Jurald. The realisation hurt, but in a good way, like the lancing of a boil.

 _Where is home, do you think?_ he asked Des. _I thought it was here but …_

 _Demons don’t have a ‘home’,_ Des said tartly. She then relented and added _But it would be interesting to find out what it is like to have one._


End file.
